To Know and Notice
by InterdimensionalHitchhiker84
Summary: There was another applicant for the Divination teaching position the day Sybil Trelawney was hired. Sherlock Holmes. He may have been an unwilling applicant, but he was competent. He was hired, Sybil was never even interviewed, and the fateful prophesy wasn't heard or noticed. Not at first anyways.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Any version of it. I also do not own the Harry Potter series. This applies to all future chapters. It you know it's not mine, then rest assured that I'm not trying to claim it is-I'm just borrowing it. And not making any sort of profit._

_A bit of background: Sherlock and Mycroft are pureblood wizards. They attended an exclusive school with smaller class-sizes and more specialized learning. Mycroft works at a minor position in the Ministry of Magic. Sherlock is, as of yet, unemployed. Sherlock has very little magic. He never got the hang of accidental magic and could never control it like Mycroft could as a child. As a result, he struggles to perform any charm more difficult than lumos. Transfiguration and defensive spells are an enormous effort. He did poorly in History because it was simply boring. However, despite his struggles, he's a genius in other areas and holds a mastery in Arithmancy, Potions, and Divination. He's also competent in Ancient Runes and most aspects of Herbology. He never bothered with Care of Magical Creatures._

_Enjoy!_

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**CHAPTER 1**

Sherlock stepped into the Hog's Head, crinkling his nose in open disgust, his clean suit standing out sharply in the run-down place. His eyes wandered across the dirty floors and surfaces and the scraggly features of the several occupants. Snorting at the idiocy of the entire situation, he gave a curt nod to the bartender, who had been determinately scowling at him for the past few seconds, and lowered himself carefully into a chair across from a slightly older gentleman with thinning brown hair and expensively tailored robes.

"Why are we here?" Sherlock asked carefully. He thought he knew the reason, or at least the likely reason—his current tablemate had been bothering him about getting a job for months—but this man was one of the few who was capable of fooling him.

"You have a job interview." Sherlock's scowl deepened. The man in the tailored robes cast a quick glance at a woman with bushy brown hair and thick glasses who was at the bar ordering a sherry.

"For what?"

The man quickly shifted his gaze back over to Sherlock. "The interview is in about thirty seconds. I suggest you prepare yourself." He paused as an old man with a silver beard and startlingly unfashionable robes entered the pub and went to speak quietly with the barkeeper, who was probably related to him based on the resemblance. "And if you don't take his job, you will be on your own. I will not go on supporting you, Brother."

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "What is the job?"

Mycroft smiled and said nothing as the old man came from the bar to their table. "Mr. Holmes?" he inquired.

Mycroft inclined his head towards Sherlock and the old man turned to face the much younger one. Sherlock did not look at the visitor, preferring to continue glaring daggers at his older brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

"Yes," Sherlock said suddenly. He stood and faced the old man, his eyes scanning over him to collect any pertinent information. He cleared his throat slightly before speaking. "Nearly one hundred years of age. A teacher—no, retired teacher. Headmaster? Yes, maybe-probably at that school over on the hills. Brother of the rather irritated-looking bartender—your relationship is tense. You've broken your nose twice, but never had it properly healed, indicating you feel a certain amount of guilt over the incidents leading up to the injuries. Homosexual, but no current partner—probably a bad breakup. You've just come from having tea where you consumed at least two cups of standard peppermint tea, three rather ordinary biscuits, and then a hard sweet. You came in looking more bored than anything else, meaning that whichever position you're trying to fill, you don't much care for it. Based on current public trends and recent magical advanced, it's most likely the Divinations position. Whatever my brother has told you, I'm not interested."

He started to walk away, but came to a stop when he heard his brother cough. "Yes, Mycroft." There was no response, so he turned his head back towards the table to look. Mycroft caught him with a piercing glare and a warning raised eyebrow. Sighing, he turned all the way back around. Mycroft was right. He couldn't support himself without income and based on the teacher's dislike for the subject, he wouldn't be expected to do a great job anyway, which would give him more time for his own projects.

Sherlock extended his hand to shake that of the old man. "Sherlock Holmes. I'd be…_happy_ to apply for the position."

The old man looked quite shocked, but quickly composed himself and shook the proffered hand. "Yes…well, shall we?" He indicated a hallway and Sherlock reluctantly followed him into a small private room.

When they had both sat, the old man spoke again. "Would you care for tea, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement and leaned back in his chair. "That was an impressive display, although you could have gotten any of that information from good research."

"I wasn't informed of the interview until a few moments before you arrived and I haven't the foggiest idea who you are."

The old man frowned. "You don't know who I am?"

Sherlock frowned right back. Was this man really so dense? He hated repeating himself.

"Well, I'm not used to any degree of anonymity. It is refreshing, though. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, among other things. I'm sure my picture was in the Daily Prophet only three days ago."

Sherlock nodded. "I've been living in the," he hesitated over the word, "muggle world. I don't follow wizarding news."

"Probably safest that way, during these times of war. However, I can assure you that Hogwarts is absolutely safe."

Sherlock looked skeptical. "I can protect myself."

"Yes, well… What are your qualifications?"

Sherlock repressed a sigh and leaned back in his chair. This was going to be very boring.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ridiculous questions and absentmindedly pushed the dark curls back out of his face. "I believe you will find three of my prophesies on record in the hall, although at least six have already been fulfilled and many others were never filed as they were not 'prophetic' in the terms of the ministry. However, as much as you'd like to be able to measure a divinations teacher on how well they apply the subject material, that's not how it works. Divinations is a complex branch of magic, but almost none of it has anything to do with actual prophesies. Almost all of the subject has to do with making observations and turning those observations into predictions. For example, based on the lifeline on your palm, your current age, your magical aura, the high-risk situation we are currently living in, and several other factors I'd rather not take the time to explain, involving quite a lot of arithmancy and basic application of general knowledge, I can predict that your death will occur sometime in the year of 1997."

Professor Dumbledore looked quite shocked and took a moment to regain his composure. "Yes. There is one more applicant I have yet to interview. The real question, before you go Mr. Holmes, is are you capable of teaching the subject to the students who wish to learn it?"

Sherlock paused for a moment before nodding his head. Yes, it would probably be worth getting Mycroft off his back. Besides, if it was too much of a hassle, he could always quit. "Yes. However, the other applicant—was she at the bar earlier?"

"Yes. Sybil Trelawney. I don't have high hopes for her, but I did promise an interview."

"Don't bother. She's an alcoholic and a fraud. She knows nothing of the field and only aspires to it because she is nearly incapable of any other magic."

Dumbledore rose from his seat and extended his hand to Sherlock. "In that case, Mr. Holmes, you are hired. The school term begins September 1st. You are welcome to join us at the castle any time before then."

Sherlock nodded again and, ignoring the offered hand, stepped around the old man to leave the room. He jogged down the hall and exited the pub without a backward glance. Dumbledore was left dumbfounded. He exited the room as well—slowly—and made his way back out to the main area. With a false smile, he greeted the other applicant, staying only long enough to tell her the position had been filled before returning to the castle.

About a half an hour later, after several more sherries and quite a lot of tears, Sybil Trelawney made a prediction. A prediction which went entirely unnoticed as the drunken ramblings of a depressed and misguided young woman. It was automatically recorded in the hall of prophesies, but no one looked for it and it was several long months before it was found and received a closer look.

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_I know! I'm sorry! I know I'm supposed to be updating my other stories. I also know I said I wouldn't be doing anything until June. However, this idea was being distracting and I absolutely had to write it down, so I thought that at least you guys could enjoy this little bit in mean time._

_Thanks for reading! I'd appreciate any reviews you'd care to offer._

_-MP_


	2. Chapter 2

_Writing this chapter this quickly was a fluke. I do try to keep from having horribly long breaks between updates, but this story will be sporadic at best._

_Enjoy!_

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**CHAPTER 2**

Sherlock looked around the tower in unbridled horror. This was supposed to be his classroom? Heaven only know what his quarters would look like. Thoroughly irritated, he pushed back his dark curls and surveyed the mess. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him and a grin spread across his face. Striding carefully over to the fireplace, he took some floo powder from the mantle, threw it in, and calmly stated, "Mycroft Holmes' office, Ministry of Magic." Satisfied, he began to toss things into the green flames. In a matter of minutes, nearly everything but the furniture was gone.

It had taken four days and had been incredibly boring, but he had finally gotten his classroom, office, and personal quarters set up in a way that didn't make him too horribly uncomfortable. The classroom was organized with rows of individual desks in the front facing his desk and a large whiteboard, just in front of the stairs to his quarters. In the other half of the room were tables with four chairs each and a large square of connected desks which created an enclosed area where things could be set up for observation. It was a clean and organized space, designed for learning. Gone were the cushions and lamps and incense burners which could only serve to put a student to sleep.

His office, which was just off of the corridor below the classroom, was set up with a desk and a work table, an enormous pin board, a couch and chairs, and a set of cupboards with a built in stasis charm which would keep the more delicate experiments and ingredients fresh and stable. His quarters were a mess. There was simply too much space in the top floor of the tower. His bedroom could fit the entirety of most of his old flats and the bathroom was the size of a public toilet. The large kitchen and extensive balcony area, though, was very useful.

The biggest downside of the whole set up, albeit not entirely surprising, was that after Mycroft had finished emptying _his_ office, he'd installed a portrait which connected to Sherlock's. And Sherlock couldn't get rid of the thing. It chattered constantly whenever he entered the room and reported on all of his activities as soon as he left.

He settled in quickly, though, and stayed in his little section of the castle almost exclusively. It was August the 29th before he'd met any of the other staff.

It was nearly nine o'clock. The sun was nearly set with just a few rays of dark red coloring the landscape. Sherlock sat in his office, staring across the room at the large window behind the desk. He was lounging in his armchair, a syringe discarded off to one side. When a large barn owl flew to the window and perched on the sill, Sherlock didn't even notice. When it started tapping the glass, though, he groaned and closed his eyes. It continued and he shot it an intimidating stare, but it didn't cease. Standing suddenly, he yelled at it, "I'm thinking!" He collapsed back into the chair and tried to return his focus to the experiment he'd just finished. The bird only ruffled its feathers and tapped louder.

Growling with frustration, Sherlock threw himself from the chair and flung open the window. Hooting indignantly, the owl swooped into the room and landed gracefully on the coffee table. Sherlock slammed the window closed and went back to his chair, pausing only long enough to relieve the animal of its note. It hooted angrily at the closed window before forcing its way out through the partially open door.

Dropping the scrap of parchment onto the floor, he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace.

When he awoke in the early morning, Sherlock saw only the expanse of fading stars in the pre-dawn. He had a pounding headache. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter and he breathed in the smoke gratefully. He quickly climbed the ladder and then the stairs to his quarters, then relieved himself in his irritatingly large loo. He finished the cigarette before smashing it in an ashtray and then took a shower. Once dressed, he made himself a mug of coffee and descended once more to check on his newest potion experiment.

He spied the parchment on the ground and picked it up.

_Professor Holmes,_

_I do hope you're settling in nicely. There is a mandatory staff meeting at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning, directly after breakfast. Please do join us._

_Albus Dumbledore_

Sherlock grumbled at the note. Why say 'please' if it's mandatory? He threw it back to the floor and then continued over to his potion. He still had another few hours.

When it approached eight thirty, Sherlock brushed his curls out of his face, thinking idly of a haircut, and began to store his things so they would be relatively safe until he returned. Stuffing his stockinged feet into previously discarded shoes, he closed and locked his office door behind him and began to navigate his way down to the main floor of the castle. It was nine twenty two when he pushed open the doors of the Great Hall.

A group of sixteen individuals surrounded a table in the center of the enormous room. He began observing and deducing quite quickly. A group of fairly ordinary school teachers with various home lives and a few with no outside connections. There was one half-giant, one ghost, and one partial goblin. Dumbledore met his gaze and smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, Professor Holmes, so good of you to join us. I can only assume that you lost your way. The castle is quite confusing." Sherlock didn't even bother nodding and returned his attention to the other staff members. They had been staring, but with the revelation of his identity, they broke out in scattered conversation, gossip and speculation mostly. His eyes lingered over a man with long scraggly brown hair and a fierce glare who had a cat entwined about his ankles. He smiled slightly, keeping his thoughts to himself for ones. This could be long term and it would do no good to alienate everyone immediately. It would be much less boring to drag it out a bit.

Dumbledore began to make introductions and he listened as he lowered himself into a seat, pulling out another cigarette. He looked over each one more carefully when their names were said, the piercing, ever-changing eyes roaming over them and searching for useful information.

"Bathsheba Babbling, Ancient Runes," a tall woman with glasses and plaited blonde hair greeted his look. Husband in the farming business. Interesting, but generally irrelevant. Two young children.

"Cuthbert Binns, History of Magic," the shriveled old ghost didn't look up. There was nothing of interest about him. He'd been dead for years. He wasn't even able to properly process new information anymore.

"Charity Burbage, Muggle Studies," a young woman—maybe early twenties. Has a girlfriend. Very interesting.

"Filius Flitwick, Charms," dull. Part goblin, no wife or other family. Almost definitely has banking connections, though. Worth looking into.

"Jaecob Kettleborn, Care of Magical Creatures," an oldish man, closing in on fifty, with wispy hair of an undefined shade. He seems very aware of his surroundings. Obviously not enough so, though. He's missing part of his left leg and most of an ear.

"Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration," a tall, severe-looking woman with black hair and square glasses. Husband, no children, something a bit…off. Further inspection will be in order later.

"Aurora Sinistra, Astronomy," her blue eyes stood out quite a bit. No outside connections. Has a pet cat.

"Horace Slughorn, Potions," short, fat, and balding. Enjoys life's comforts. He's looking almost longingly at the cigarette. That could be useful. Sherlock blew out a perfect smoke ring and resisted the urge to grin at the teachers' reactions which ranged from disgusted to jealous.

"Pomona Sprout, Herbology," flyaway, greying strawberry blonde hair. Dirt under the fingernails. Either not good at cleaning spells or simply doesn't care. Husband and at least one child, probably grown.

"Septima Vector, Arithmancy," could be someone worth getting to know. Probably not anywhere near my level, but could be a sounding board. Maybe. Steady boyfriend. Good. If I do talk to her, she'll be less likely to mistake it as interest.

"Argus Filch, caretaker," Ah, the scraggly one. He'll be cleaning up the messes. Good to know. No wonder he looks so bitter. And he's a squib, too.

"Nathaniel Newman, Defense Against the Dark Arts," strong mental and emotional shields-what are those for?—several siblings, currently living with one of them plus a dog.

"Rolanda Hooch, Flying instructor," lives off-campus. Athletic, but calculating. Husband, no children.

"Irma Pince, librarian," Definitely interested in Filch. Disgusting, but could be useful. Damn it, I sound like my brother. I'm not purposely angering people because they could be useful.

"Poppy Pomfrey, medi-witch," good at healing, then. She may pose a problem if she tries to interfere in my personal affairs. I'll have to avoid her.

"and Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the keys and grounds," the half-giant puffed out his chest proudly. Not very intelligent but fiercely loyal. Obviously not of acquaintance with any kind of comb or hair brush.

Most of the staff eyed Sherlock suspiciously as Dumbledore introduced him. "And this is Professor Sherlock Holmes. He's kindly agreed to teach Divination." Again, Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, preferring to focus on the smoke he was inhaling.

"And what are your qualifications, Professor Holmes?" asked Septima Vector.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked directly at her. "Masters in Potions, Arithmancy, _and_ Divination. I assure you, I am _quite_ qualified." He leaned back in his chair, only to be confronted with more questions.

"Potions, you say? Well, my boy, maybe you would like to join me some time—"

"Arithmancy? How can you possibly study Divination _and_ Arithmancy?"

Sherlock gave them all a solid stare until they stopped talking. Dumbledore broke the resulting silence. "Yes, well, let's get on with things, shall we? Would anyone like more tea?"

Sherlock carefully refrained from yelling out "BORED!" during the meeting. He was, though. Truly, terribly bored. They were discussing rules, and time tables and lesson plans and eventually individual students. He wasn't interested in any of it. Occasionally, he was asked for input, but a raised eyebrow made most of them leave him alone.

At twelve thirty, food was prepared by the house elves. He didn't eat, preferring to keep his mind clear for his projects later that afternoon. Pomfrey eyed his thin, nearly skeletal frame with quiet determination, worry, and disapproval. As he thought, she was going to be a problem.

It was after two when he was finally able to return to his tower. He bounded up the stairs and into his office, refusing to stay and 'socialize.' Unfortunately, one of them followed him. He was staring through a microscope at a reaction between powdered horned slug and a drop of Veritiserum when she knocked smartly on the door. He didn't look up. "Come."

Professor McGonagall opened the door and stepped through, her nose crinkling at the mess he'd already made of the area. She smiled knowingly at the papers strewn across various surfaces, but frowned when she spied the simmering cauldron, the various ingredients, the muggle chemicals and equipment, the vials of blood, and the discarded syringe. After several long moments, Sherlock straightened and marked something down on the notebook next to him. "Well?" he asked.

She cleared her throat awkwardly and began, "Professor Holmes, I make no secret of my feelings toward Divination."

"Oh, for the love of Merlin, get on with it, will you? Say what you want to say and get out."

She cleared her throat once more, obviously flustered by Sherlock's interruption. With a deep breath, she continued. "I plan to give you a chance, as both a teacher and a person, but ultimately, if you don't do a good job, I will take action."

"Ah, yes," he leaned back against the table and looked at her. "The deputy. Quite. I can assure you, Professor, that I'm quite capable of doing my job. If that is all—"

"No, that is not all." He raised an eyebrow slightly. "I need to know what you plan on teaching your students." He stared at her for several seconds, evaluating her intentions and deciding what to tell her.

"I will teach the approved curriculum. If a student—any student—shows any kind of ability or desire to learn, then I will endeavor to teach them something that could actually be useful. I will not waste my time on those who do not desire it." And with that, he turned back to what he was doing and marked down several more observations in the makeshift chart.

McGonagall gaped for a bit before she recovered the ability to speak. "I… that's… do you mean to say that you will teach the students individually?"

"Only the intelligent ones. Based on the course material, it's quite obvious that most students will simply be taking this class so they don't have to do any real work. The assignments are pointless, the lessons are useless, and every technique is flawed. They certainly aren't getting anything out of it."

Again, McGonagall was at a loss for words. "I… oh my… yes... uh... Professor Holmes, if there is any Gryffindor who is taking your class and not taking the work seriously, I would like to know about it." Sherlock looked up. She was serious. Carefully, he nodded, never taking his eyes off her.

"I won't differentiate between houses. After the first classes, I can give you a list of everyone who's in there to fill a slot in their timetables rather than to learn." He looked down again, added something to the mixture, and then looked up once more. "I'd like you to know, that though I couldn't care less about those who choose to do nothing with their time, I will not tolerate extreme idiocy or trouble-making in my classroom. Those individuals will have to find a different subject." He looked back down.

McGonagall nodded. "Yes, of course, I…I would expect nothing else." She left the office very confused. He had a mastery in divination, but said the course material is useless? He might actually be competent. And maybe divination wasn't quite the waste she'd been led to believe. Not if there was something better than what was shown in the course.

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_Reviews are greatly appreciated!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


	3. Chapter 3

_Enjoy!_

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**CHAPTER 3**

Sherlock spent Saturday and Sunday doing very little. He was bored out of his mind, mostly, but he spent nearly the entire weekend on a high, so it bothered him less than normal. When he woke on Monday morning, he rolled out his shoulders and vowed to get a cot for his office. The couch was all well and good, but it wasn't a bed. He rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes and pulled himself up from his seat. Going through the motions, he made himself some coffee, actually forced himself to eat a slice of toast to make his stomach shut up, and got a shower. He dressed hurriedly and pulled a skull from his trunk. Soon, the halls would be filled with students, so he needed to set up his wards now.

Rushing down the stairs, he set the skull carefully on the desk and pulled three vials of his own blood from a cupboard. These were followed by several potions ingredients. He laid out his materials, set the cauldron in its place, and began to prepare the potion. It took about half an hour to complete and used more of the blood than he would have liked. Cursing under his breath, he set the finished product aside and set about drawing more blood.

Feeling weak, he poured the vial into a stone bowl and fished a paint brush out of a drawer. He coated the door and windows, as well as the sills and the floor around the entrance way then painted the remaining potion around the drawers and cupboards he didn't want tampered with or opened. Satisfied with his work, he used a finger to clean out the dish and smear it onto the base of the skull. He then picked up the blood and a clean brush and pulled out his Runes notes. Methodically, he began to paint the intricate patterns, weaving, thread by thread, the magical barriers and alerts that he wanted. He'd finished the door, windows, walls, ceiling and floor and was well into the cupboards when he heard footsteps outside in the corridor. As the figure approached the door and stopped, Sherlock immediately deduced their identity. Before they could knock or enter, he stopped them with his near-shout.

"Do not touch the door." Hearing the figure stop, he continued his painting and speaking. "Professor Dumbledore, how very good of you to come by. Unfortunately, I am in the middle of setting up rather delicate and complex wards. An outside touch would reverse the whole morning's work." He carefully left out the part about the wards being tied into his blood and the fact that it would take weeks to safely accumulate enough blood to start over and the fact that he didn't want the old man's DNA where it could accidently be tied into the wards. "If you would be so good as to leave, it would be very much appreciated. Would you care to make an appointment?"

It was clear that the headmaster wasn't quite sure how he should react. "Well, of course, setting up wards is well within your rights as a teacher, but could I ask what sort of wards could be so delicate?"

Sherlock sighed inaudibly and resisted the urge to childishly reply, 'you could ask.' For a moment. Then he stopped resisting. "You could ask, Professor," he said with the quirk of an eyebrow, "but it's hardly any of your business and I would be unlikely to answer."

"Ah," Dumbledore said from behind the door. "Well, would you be finished by three thirty? I really would like to discuss several things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but continued his work. "It is likely. And you'll expect me to come to your office. Directions." None of what he said was a question.

Dumbledore smiled a bit at the straightforward manner, though Sherlock didn't see this. It was refreshing to find someone not in awe of the very ground he walked on. "Simply proceed down this corridor, take a left at the blue draperies, another left at the painting of Oswald the Fifth, and a right at the statue of Madame Luke. Proceed down the stairs, up the next set you see, and around the bend. Simply tell the gargoyle 'apple jelly.'"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the names-was he really expected to know these people?—but said nothing. After several moments, Dumbledore said, "Good afternoon, Professor Holmes," and walked away, his heeled boots clicking on the stone floors.

Sherlock took his time finishing up the wards, making sure every brush stroke was perfect. When he'd finally finished around every edge and corner, he stood and looked around the room, smiling to himself. Stepping carefully over to his desk, his socked feet not making a sound, he gently lifted the skull. With great attention to detail, he painted the necessary runes and symbols on its base before moving to the rest of the bone. He stopped only when he was sure the intricate design that would tie all of his work together was absolutely perfect. He placed the skull on the shelf over the small office fireplace with great care, positioning it so the symbols matched up exactly with the flow of the room. He inhaled quickly, then with as much magic as he could muster, he blew out, twirling in a circle to cover every crevice. The runes glowed as the magic touched them and they activated with a great warmth. Sherlock felt the tingle in his blood letting him know he'd been correctly linked into his work and he grinned widely, acknowledging his accomplishment. He sank into his chair and watched contentedly as the blood and potion faded into the surface it had been painted onto. It took only a few minutes for all evidence of his day's activity to become invisible to all but those who knew what to look for.

Glancing at the clock, he groaned and quickly threw his used materials into a washbasin to be dealt with later. Swinging open his office door, he stepped into the corridor, walked down it, and took a left at the blue draperies, his socks still not making any noise on the stone floors.

Sherlock took his time making his way through the corridors. It was hardly complicated, despite incomplete directions, but he didn't feel that there was any need to rush. He had a brief staring contest with the stone gargoyle before repressing a sigh, dramatically rolling his eyes, and spitting out the absurd password. He took the moving stairs two at a time for the sheer novelty of traveling upwards so quickly, then rapped smartly on the door before pushing it open.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk with a patient smile. "Professor, how good of you to join me. And what lovely socks. They look quite warm." He leaned back in his chair. "Do take a seat."

Avoiding the many obstacles, Sherlock sat gracefully in an armchair facing the older man and crossed his legs, utterly relaxed.

"I daresay purple is a saddeningly uncommon choice in socks, but it matches your shirt." His eyes twinkled as he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, down to business, then. Did you get your wards finished?" A cocked eyebrow was the only response. What an idiotic question. Sherlock wouldn't be there if he hadn't finished. Dumbledore seemed to get the message and hummed in response. "Yes, well, as long as it's nothing dangerous to the students." Not dangerous at all if they behave themselves. Which _is_ highly unlikely. To the real reason we're here, though, we do need to discuss your plans for your classes."

Sherlock didn't even bother repressing the groan. The meeting was short, thankfully, but also quite boring. Sherlock explained that he'd basically be following the official lesson plans and interested students could come to him for additional assignments. He didn't bother to tell Dumbledore about his talk with McGonagall. Either he already knew, or the deputy didn't think it was relevant. Even his great mind, though, was at a loss to explain how he managed to leave the irritatingly loud office with several pairs of bright wool socks stuffed in his trouser pockets. The headmaster's parting comment rung in his ears for no discernible reason. "Do put on some robes, Professor. We'll see you before the feast!"

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was attend a feast, but with very limited options, he decided it wasn't worth the effort. So despite the headmaster's request, he donned an expensive-looking muggle suit, pulled on some shoes, messed up his hair, and after pulling on his long dark coat and a scarf, lit up a cigarette. Only then did he proceed down the many stairs and to the entrance hall where the other staff were waiting.

As soon as the last straggling professor arrived, Dumbledore clapped his hands and spoke. "Another year is about to begin! Let's hop to it, shall we?" And then he started listing out assignments. He was sent to help check on the carriages to make sure the harnesses were secure. This evening was already awful. Pulling his coat more tightly around himself against the unusually chilly wind, he lit up another cigarette. Professor Sinistra glared at him. He rolled his eyes and blew a smoke ring in her direction.

With the work all done, the teachers all sat at the long head table and waited for the students to arrive. Several teachers attempted to engage him in conversation, but he shushed the first few, giving him his rude hand, and entered his mind palace where he could have a bit of relative piece. Smiling, he glanced around at the lab in his mind before bending over a microscope and carefully examining the ash he'd placed beneath it.

He was unfortunately nudged into awareness when about five hundred students poured into the hall. Dear Merlin, it was hell. All that noise. It was awful. Taking just a few minutes to adjust, he steepled his fingers once more and tuned out the dull proceedings. He was only vaguely aware that a hat sorted a bunch of new students into houses, he and the Defense professor were introduced, and announcements were made. When food appeared, he did not emerge.

It took several minutes of nudging, some heavy poking, and three hard slaps to wake Sherlock up enough to see the students talking to themselves, occasionally pointing at him or the other new teacher, observe the copious amounts of heavy food piled over every inch of the tables, and hear the professor's demands for answers about what he was doing.

"_I was thinking!_" he hissed at them.

They demanded he eat something. Apparently there were four students who had eating disorders already and he was setting a bad example. Grudgingly, he took several bites of fruit, ate a piece of buttered bread, picked at a piece of chicken, and drank a goblet of water before telling them all to leave him alone and receding back into his mind palace.

He allowed himself to finally be nudged back into awareness once more in time to hear Dumbledore say, "Off you go," and see the mass of students and teachers rise from their seats. Following suit, he rose, pulled his coat from the back of his chair, swung it over his shoulders, and strode off towards his tower without saying a word to anyone.

Sherlock would have loved nothing more than to get up to his rooms without speaking to anyone. Unfortunately, there was a large blockage in the hallway and he hadn't found the time to explore well enough to easily get around it. So, saying nothing, he leaned against a wall and waited, his eyes closed and his hands shoved in his coat pockets.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at a blond-haired boy with blue eyes who looked to be about thirteen. He said nothing.

"Sir, there's a blockage ahead. Could you-I mean, could you maybe get Peeves to move?"

Sherlock realized that his silent stare was probably rather frightening, or at least unpleasant, but he didn't stop staring. "Peeves?" he grunted.

"Yes, sir."

He continued to stare intensely, conveying that the boy should continue.

"The poltergeist, sir."

With a barely repressed eye-roll and a sigh, he pushed past the boy, cringed at the close proximity to other people as he made his way through the group, and looked upon a scene of complete chaos.

"Peeves, is it?" he asked with false sweetness. The ugly little apparition looked at him and grinned widely. "Ridiculous name, he continued. Not even inventive." The poltergeist was about to do something very stupid, but Sherlock raised a hand and continued. "The reason we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting is because my office, classroom, and quarters are warded against ones such as yourself." He paused for a moments for dramatic effect and several students gasped in obvious shock. "If you so wish, I could apply similar wards to the corridors. If not, I suggest you make yourself scarce." Peeves scrunched up his face in anger and disbelief, sputtered a bit, and then blew a loud raspberry and zoomed away from the crowd.

Sherlock was then faced with a crowd of admirers saying things ranging from, "Wow!" to "Bloody brilliant!" to "Only Dumbledore and the Bloody Baron can do that!" to "I thought he taught Divination?" Sherlock sighed, ignored the questions directed at him, and made his way up the next set of stairs towards his office. He needed to be away from all these people.

* * *

_Classes will start next chapter! Thanks for reading! I love reviews, so let me know what you think! They make me write faster!_

_That was more exclamation points than normal. Oh well._

_-MP_


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